


Melitele Knows I'm Miserable Now

by RockingItInAParallelUniverse



Category: Marrissey - Fandom, The Smiths, The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Asexual Character, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Canon What Canon?, Canonically Wrong On So Many Levels, Crack Crossover, Don't Have to Know Canon, Emotionally Constipated Morrissey, Freeform, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, I Ship It, Johnny is a BAMF, M/M, Magic, Must Have Sense Of Humor To Read, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Pansexual Character, Quarantine 2020 Fic, Reunions, Self-Hatred, Separations, Timeline What Timeline, oh so much pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23005306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockingItInAParallelUniverse/pseuds/RockingItInAParallelUniverse
Summary: What would happen if Morrissey, the sexually ambiguous, melancholy lead singer of The Smiths became the fearsome Witcher, Geralt of Rivea? What if the gregarious guitar god,  Johnny Marr, of the same band, turned into the lively, lovable bard, Jaskier? You'd have this twisted tale. The adventures of Morrissey of Stretford and his faithful companion, Johnny Dandelion. (or The Witcher/The Smiths crossover that nobody ever asked for)
Relationships: Johnny Marr (Jaskier|Dandelion)/Morrissey (Geralt of Rivia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> So I fell headfirst into The Witcher fandom and the Geraskier ship. And I saw too many similarities and parallels to those two idiots in love with the entire Marrissey saga that I could not let it alone. And like Frankenstein's monster, this story was created in the terrifying laboratory of my mind. Read at your own risk. You have been warned.
> 
> Please read the notes at the end of the chapter for canon clarification and character description. Hopefully this will make it less confusing.

The Witcher sat by himself in a corner of the dark tavern nursing his tankard of ale as he contemplated the cruel conjectures of destiny. His latest contract placed him in Toussaint to rid the village of a kikimore nest. The large, spider-like monsters chose a swamp next to the main road out of town for their home, preying on unsuspecting travelers as easy meals. Thus, the town's alderman sought out Morrissey's invaluable services.

He shrugged deeper into the hood of his cloak. The eyes of the tavern's patrons burned into his back. Even though he was here to help the village and attempt to save their lives, the people still treated him with contempt and disgust. Morrissey wasn't human, after all. His humanity had been destroyed decades ago in the mountains of Kaer Morhen when he became what he is now: a mutant manufactured and trained to slay monsters. Which put him one lowly step above the monsters he's meant to kill. He was something to be feared and reviled.

The incongruity of his existence was baffling. He was equipped with superhuman strength, superior senses of smell and hearing, night vision and the power to heal wounds that would be lethal to most mortals. Yet he hated to kill. Most times, his sympathy (if a witcher had emotions) lay with the monsters. The vast majority weren't inherently cruel. They killed to survive. Unlike humans who seemed to kill at the drop of a hat. Morrissey was sure that once the kikimore nest was taken care of these townsfolk would delight in killing him. At the very least, they would spit on him and hurl rocks at his back to hasten his departure from their midst.

Morrissey was brought back to the present by the sound of someone tuning a lute. He saw a small, dark-haired man bent over the instrument, smiling as the strings sang to him. The Witcher hoped the little bard would fill the tavern with beautiful music and poignant verse. If destiny weren't such a bitch, he could have been a poet, himself. His head was filled with deep metaphors and tendrils about the meaning of life and the beauty of the continent. Unfortunately, he could not seem to translate those poetic thoughts into words. His vocabulary consisted mainly of hmmm, coin, no and fuck. 

Gazing at the bard again, Morrissey wondered if the man could possibly be part elf. His face was delicate with fair skin, high cheekbones and shapely lips. His warm, brown eyes sparkled with joy and a touch of mischief. A shock of black hair fell over those eyes and he repeatedly tossed his head in an effort to clear his vision. His fingers nimbly strummed the strings of his instrument and a lively melody filled the otherwise stale air. The Witcher leaned forward in anticipation. Then the bard began to sing.

His voice wasn't awful. It rang out in a deeper timbre than Morrissey expected from such a small man. He sang in tune and with great spirit and inflection. But his words were nonsense. They destroyed the beautiful picture painted by the melody. He sang about whores, abortions, vague apparitions, and creatures that didn't exist. It was utter shite. The entire tavern seemed to agree with Morrissey's assessment. They booed and pelted the bard with bread, potatoes and even porridge catapulted from their spoons.

"You're obviously not familiar with fine music!" the bard yelled, holding his hands up as shields against the flying food.

"Neither have you, you sad excuse for a troubadour!" a man with an especially accurate throwing arm said as he launched a stale roll, hitting the bard squarely in the forehead.

The young man carefully laid his lute down and began collecting the bread from the floor of the tavern. When his pockets were full, he nibbled on a discarded loaf and glanced around the room. A feeling of dread descended on Morrissey when the bard's eyes landed on him. He kept his eyes downcast staring into his ale like it held the answers to the universe.

"So? You've nothing to say about my performance?" The bard tried to look casual as he leaned against a post in front of Morrissey's table. "Everyone else did. I crave constructive criticism."

"I'm here to drink alone."

The bard obviously liked to live dangerously. He slid into the chair across from Morrissey. "Oh come now. Just a few words? Don't keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.”

Morrissey looked up at that. This had to be the worst bard in all of bard-dom. Bread in his pants? "None of your creatures exist," he mumbled out, hoping to put an end to this interaction.

"And how do you know that?" the young man asked, saucily.

"Hmmm."

"Wait. I know who you are. Brooding in a corner alone. Two big, scary swords. You're Morrissey of Stretford, the famed Witcher!"

Morrissey grabbed his belongings and rose to leave. All he wanted was a warm meal, good ale and some decent music before he had to go slaughter monsters for coin. Was that too much to ask? Most people left him alone. But this stupid bard followed him out the door. And the weirdest thing was Morrissey smelled no fear on the man. Humans were always afraid of Witchers. Always. What the hell was wrong with this bard?

"Go away," Morrissey stopped and glared at the man with an expression that caused most people to turn tail and run.

"Your eyes! Wow. They are so blue. Turquoise almost. They're the stuff of, of. Well, um, they look just like..."

This was really too much. If he was being poetic, Morrissey would say his eyes resembled multi-faceted blue tourmaline that glowed with just a hint of gold. Not that he spent hours staring at himself. But sometimes a clear lake provided a decent reflection and he would see what made most people cower, his strange eyes. Morrissey thought they were beautiful. The only thing about his appearance that was worth a damn.

"They're the stuff of nightmares," he tried to fill in helpfully for the tongue-tied bard.

"No. That's definitely not it," the man laughed. "I guess that's why I'm the bard and you're the Witcher."

Morrissey rolled his weird, blue eyes and uttered a gravelly, "Hmmmm" in response.

"Julian Alfred Pankratz at your service. Or Johnny Dandelion," the idiot replied. "You can call me Johnny if you like."

The Witcher made it a point not to respond and readied his horse as though the bard wasn't there.

"So where are we off to?"

"We aren't off to anywhere. I am on my way to destroy a nest of kikimores. That's no place for a bard."

"Kikimores? They're real, then? I thought the villagers were just being dramatic. Trying to scare off any wandering musicians. This I've got to see. It could inspire my best work yet!"

"Do you have a death wish? Kikimore have fangs and claws that could draw and quarter a man!"

"I happen to have a sword in my lute case. I'm very fast on my feet. My fencing instructors said I was great with a blade. It's made out of silver, too! But don't say that too loudly. I would hate to get mugged for my sword."

"Fuck." Because really, what else could he say? Morrissey decided to let the bard tag along. The best case scenario would be that he finally comes to his senses and high tails it back to the tavern. Worst case, the musician is eviscerated by the kikimore and dies. No matter the outcome, the silly man would be out of Morrissey's hair.

So they trudged out of town. Johnny never stopped talking. He talked of the sounds of lutes and mandolins. He talked about the coin he earned in the previous village for singing his stupid songs. He spoke of bedding barmaids and stable boys.

"Shut up, bard," Morrissey hissed. 

Johnny got the message that this was more than just annoyance from the Witcher. They were almost to the swamp. "Stay here with Roach."

"Roach?"

"The horse, you idiot."

"But I won't be able to see anything."

"You won't be killed."

"But I won't be killed if I go to the edge of the swamp..."

"No."

"I'll bring my sword."

"No."

"I could help you."

"No."

"But.."

Morrissey finally stomped off without answering. Shit. Now he probably alerted the monsters to his presence. Stupid bard. He worked alone. No humans travel with Witchers. That's how the world works. He might hate this job, he might wish things were different. Hell, he might even wish to trade places with the bard. He could certainly write better songs. But like it or not, Morrissey was a Witcher. And it was time to do witchery things.

He pulled a small bottle from his satchel and drank the contents. Now he’ll be able to hold his breath much longer with clear vision. He must dive down into the swamp and kill the queen. If not, he'll be faced with an army of kikimore warriors and workers. They won't fight without a queen. Morrissey double checked his swords to make sure they were fastened tightly and wouldn't be lost during his dive down to the bottom. But he heard a buzzing sound and knows he missed his chance of a clean, simple kill.

He sliced the first warrior in half with his silver blade only to see three more heading toward him. At the last second, he began his dive into the murky depths to search for the queen, but just before his head disappeared below the surface, the bard’s cheerful voice sounded out.

“Don’t worry, Witcher. I’ve got your back!”

Fuck.


	2. The Obligatory Bath Tub Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrissey|Geralt and Johnny|Jaskier clean up after the kikimora hunt. Flirting and banter (J) and uneasy and gruff rebuttals(M) ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is more crappy Witcher/Marrissey crossover drivel to read in these trying times. 
> 
> This story imitates my life during the pandemic. It's bizarre and doesn't make any sense.
> 
> I've only watched the Netflix series. I'm not an expert in Witcher lore. Please forgive my tarnishing of both fandoms. I've selected whatever pieces from each to use at my whim. I'm in lockdown in a house full of people and we're all out of work and school. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

Morrissey managed a kill strike to the heart of the kikimora queen with his silver sword blade. Under normal circumstances, he would sever the monster’s head as proof of the kill to ensure payment. But he was concerned for the idiot bard’s welfare and swam straight to the surface of the weedy swamp instead.

“There he is! The man of the hour!” Johnny sang.

“I’m not a man.” Morrissey growled the words automatically. Then he glanced around the soggy banks near Johnny’s feet. “What the...?”

Johnny proudly puffed out his chest. “I told you I was good with a sword!” The bard had the gall to wiggle his eyebrows at the Witcher.

Three dead kikimora warriors lay stacked neatly next to the bard’s leather boots. Morrissey’s blue eyes were still coal black from the potion. They bored into Johnny’s happy brown ones. “What is the meaning of this?”

"I told you I've got your back! And that I'm good with a sword!"

"Hmmm."

"Where is the queen? Aren't you bringing it triumphantly back to the village for proof of your courageous deeds?"

"No. If the alderman demands proof, he can dive down to the bottom of the swamp to find the corpse himself," Morrissey snapped. There was no way in hell he would let the bard know he'd been too concerned for his health to bother decapitating the queen.

******

After arriving back in town with a dead kikimore in tow, Johnny went ahead to the inn to find a room while the alderman gratefully paid Morrissey for a job well done. The witcher left the dead monster at the gray-haired man's feet blocking the doorway to his home.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" the older gentleman asked.

Morrissey wanted to tell the man to stuff it but, as usual, he only managed an exasperated "Hmmm."

The witcher was tired. A kikimore nest was exhausting by itself, but throw the strange nuisance of a moderately attractive bard into the mix and Morrissey was completely spent. He just wanted to faceplant onto a bed and sleep his troubles away. 

"I'm afraid we've no rooms to let" the dodgy-looking innkeeper said as soon as he saw the Witcher enter his establishment.

"Just tell me which room belongs to the bard."

"I don't want any trouble and I'll not send a mutant into a paying customer's room." The innkeeper folded his arms and scrunched his ferret-like face into a stern mask of courage.

Morrissey let out a sigh. "Well then fetch the bard yourself and bring him down. You'll see we are traveling together. I only want to rest for the night. I'll be gone from here at dawn."

Still not trusting a word, the innkeeper scurried up the stairs and out of sight. Morrissey wished he'd dragged another dead Kikimora in here. Perhaps physical proof of what he'd done would have garnered some gratitude from these people. It is rather hard to run a successful inn when most travelers died in monster attacks before even entering town. Finally, Morrissey heard the clamor of feet and Johnny's familiar sing-song chatter.

"Please forgive me, Mr. Witcher. I had no idea you saved our village from those horrible beasts! I'll send Sandifer up with hot water right away."

"Hmmm."

"Our esteemed innkeeper failed to recognize the great Morrissey of Stretford, the brave White Wolf who slays the monsters plaguing these towns. Thank you so much for the gift of a hot bath. Our witcher surely has injuries that must be cleaned and cared for before he can save another village from more dreadful creatures. The White Wolf is a friend to humanity!" Johnny's brown eyes sparkled as he poured on the charm to the bedazzled innkeeper.

"Hmm," said Morrissey.

"Of course, my Witcher. Let us return to our graciously appointed room." Johnny caught Morrissey by the elbow and led him up the stairs. The witcher nearly tripped as he felt a strange warmth seep into his arm from the bard's touch.

Still a bit dazed, Morrissey sat on the straw mattress as Johnny began unfastening the straps to his black, leather armor. "I don't need your help," he said, shaking off Johnny's hands.

"There's blood on your left shoulder," Johnny said. "I don't want you reopening whatever those monsters did to you, so please allow me."

Morrissey blinked his blue eyes then fastened his gaze onto the bard. He was still dressed in a ridiculous teal doublet. His trousers were streaked with mud. Probably splattered from his knee-high boots, but Moz wasn't exactly sure because the bard had removed his footwear. He was wearing only stockings. The man stood in front of him with his hands on his hips, as though assisting grumpy witchers was just another average daily chore. Morrissey leaned forward trying to scent the smaller man. Still no sour smell of fear. Johnny smelled like lilies and fresh air with just a hint of spice. The bard's scent somehow calmed Morrissey. There was no trace of malice, not a whiff of deceit. Such a rare occurrence amongst the humans of Moz's acquaintance.

Johnny kneeled in front of Morrissey, gently unbuttoning his shredded shirt and eased it off his shoulders. The witcher stared at the floor, noticing the mud caked on his own boots intentionally ignoring the bard when he crawled onto the bed and sat behind him. He tried not to think about how soft Johnny's touch was as he dabbed at the stripes left by kikimore claws. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply when the bard began to rub some sort of oil into his aching shoulders.

"I was going to wait to do this until you were in the tub, but I simply can't bear the tension I feel in your body," Johnny hummed as he worked each knot and kink in Morrissey's muscles.

His body relaxed as the smaller man's talented fingers worked their magic. He might have groaned a couple of times as the knotted balls of nerves loosened and released. The scent of spice hung heavy in the air, crowding out the bard's softer, floral smells. Morrissey recognized this scent. Lust. Lust was rolling off Johnny's body as he massaged Morrissey's tired and scarred back. Before he had a chance to overthink this discovery, someone knocked on the door.

Johnny jumped up and greeted the servant girl with a bow. "Thank you, sweet lady. Our Witcher is eternally grateful for this steaming hot bath water."

Once the wooden tub was dragged in and filled, Johnny respectfully turned his back as Morrissey shed his trousers and stepped into the bath. He didn't turn around again until Morrissey settled down into the tub with a splash and a happy 'hmmm'. Johnny carried the bowl of water he'd been using to clean Morrissey's wounds and unceremoniously dumped it over the witcher's head.

"What the fuck, Johnny?"

"Sorry. But you had intestines in your hair," Johnny said turning back to his own sack of belongings. "You should be thankful that you have such a good friend to take care of these things," he added, tossing a handful of lavender scented crystals into the water.

"We are not friends," Morrissey grumbled.

Johnny's smile disappeared, but only for a moment. "So you usually let strangers rub chamomile over your lovely back, then? You do live an exciting life. What about when all this monster hunting nonsense is over? Surely, you'll want something for yourself then?" Johnny added with a wink.

"I want nothing." Morrissey was not about to let this damned bard try to make him feel something. Witchers don't feel. They don't yearn. They're created, they kill monsters, they die. End of story.

"Well maybe someday you'll make a friend. Who knows? Maybe someone out there will want you." Johnny squatted at the end of the bathtub, resting his elbows on the rough hewn sides. Morrissey watched the way the man's fingers fidgeted. The spicy scent of arousal stung his nostrils.

"I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me," Morrissey hissed. He could not look into Johnny's liquid brown eyes. He wouldn't succumb to the lust in the air around him. Fuck, he could smell his own scent of arousal mixing with that of Johnny's. It would only lead to hurt, another emotion he wanted nothing to do with.

But Johnny refused to drop his gaze from Morrissey's face. Johnny looked straight through the Witcher's bravado. He spoke softly. "And yet, here we are."

Morrissey had lived decades following the Path of all witchers. It's a lonely and thankless life. He didn't choose it. It was forced upon him. But he never struggled. Living only meant survival. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. Why now did he feel like a snow drift in early spring? After being frozen solid for so long, a part of him began to thaw and melt. Johnny patiently waited at the end of the bath tub. Morrissey licked his lips and immediately heard the bard's heart beat increase. He could practically feel the vibrations as it thrummed inside Johnny's chest. Arousal pooled in the witcher's belly. Fuck.

"Where are my clothes, Johnny?" he barked. His trousers were no longer beside the bath tub. Thank the gods the water had lost its warmth. Morrissey could do well with a tub of ice right now. At least his question dislodged the bard from his position at the end of the tub. The witcher was incredibly self-conscious of any physical display of arousal that Johnny might notice.

"They were filthy. I sent them with Sandifer to be cleaned. Give me a second and I will bring you your belongings," Johnny answered, striding swiftly across the room.

Morrissey sighed in relief. He was stood with a towel wrapped safely around his waist. His body would not betray him now.

"I'll just tend to my lute, then, while you are, uhm, dressing."

To a normal human's ears, the bard's babble probably sounded like an average drabble. But Morrissey was not a normal human. His enhanced hearing picked up on Johnny's frustration. And his nose smelled not only lust, but embarrassment. Clearly, he was not the only one affected. Morrissey dressed quickly and unrolled his bedroll from his bag. He'd slept on harder surfaces than an inn floor.

"What are you doing?" Johnny asked as he strummed a melody on his lute.

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like you are behaving like an idiot."

"Only if you think bedding down for the night is idiocy."

Johnny scribbled something in the small, parchment notebook he always carried and shook his head. "My dear Witcher. How can you possibly rest on the floor after such a fierce hunt? And you're ruining all my hard work. My fingers ache from massaging your brutalized back."

"Hmm. You want the floor then?" Morrissey couldn't imagine the dainty bard sleeping on the ground when a bed was available. Not to mention the fact that the man had killed 3 kikimore on his own.

He snorted. "Of course not! There's plenty of room for both of us in the bed!"

Morrissey froze. Share a bed with Johnny? Oh no. Definitely not. But the little bard was already grabbing the witcher's blanket and spreading it on the bed.

"Pick your side!"

Fuck.


	3. Beauty Is Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny appreciates the beautiful. Morrissey shuns it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm switching to present tense. I started in past tense and kept switching back to present so I'm just gonna go with it. I'm sorry for dragging two fandoms through the muck. I really have no idea what I'm doing.

The trials that change a boy into a Witcher force all weakening emotions (love, fear, ambition, etc ) to all but cease. A Witcher doesn't need love, will die if he's afraid of his prey and should desire nothing more than to kill monsters. So Morrissey uses everything he's been taught to force his attraction to the warm bard curled beside him in this tiny bed to simply go away. Leave. Begone. He does not sleep. Instead, he enters a meditative state.

Deep in meditation, Morrissey clears his mind. He envisions his shoulder knitting back together, the muscles healing, strengthening. He imagines riding Roach alone on the Path to another village, another set of monsters to slay. Another night alone under the stars with just the dying embers of his campfire for light. Even in this transcendental state, the Witcher lets out a sigh. This is not the life he desires. He doesn't understand how he survived his training trials. His dissatisfaction with his lot in life is clearly a sign of failure. A Witcher should never consider anything other than the direction to the next monster's lair. 

Johnny's arm flops over his chest. Morrissey swallows and groans. Witchers can feel lust. They were instructed to satisfy the need for sex in brothels. Taking only physical pleasure in exchange for coin. His teachers told him that there was no way to eradicate the need for sex even though they could not reproduce. The easiest way to fulfill this need was a simple business transaction. They failed to mention that most every human would never want to bed a Witcher, including prostitutes. And no one ever spoke of unfulfilling sex. But the one time Morrissey sought this kind of company, it didn't work. He felt no lust toward any of the whores. They were beautiful, scared and just wrong. And he was far too embarrassed to ask where a male prostitute could be located. So he pushed that sort of need away with the rest of his useless and unnecessary emotions. Until last night. 

In the early dawn, Morrissey carefully slides out of bed and packs his belongings. He stares at the bard. The young man is peaceful in sleep. He is the most beautiful human Morrissey has seen. He allows his hand to hover over Johnny's face. He will not touch the soft skin nor brush the black hair from the man's long eyelashes. He simply absorbs the heat and energy radiating from the bard's body as though to store it in the depths of his memories, one thing that is his and his alone. The essence of an annoying, beautiful man that has nothing at all to do with being a Witcher. His guilty pleasure. 

Morrissey leaves the inn alone with Johnny still fast asleep in the bed they shared. He hopes the memories of the bard will be enough to sustain him for decades.

******

Back on the path, Morrissey stares at the purple fields of heather from his view atop Roach. The sun and wind create shadows and patterns in the flowery fields, as though a large, invisible hand was dragging a finger across them. He can picture Johnny taking in this sight, jabbering away with his musical voice. It's a shame the bard isn't here. The Witcher pulls his horse to a halt. 

What the actual fuck? He's wandered the content for over 60 years. Alone. As it should be. Why the hell is he now picturing Johnny beside him? Morrissey urges Roach into a trot. The sooner he reaches the next village, the sooner he'll take a new contract to slay yet another monster. That is where his mind should be focused. He is an unnatural mutation of a man created to kill unnatural beings. The beauty of the continent, whether it be in the form of nature or an energetic bard, is none of his business.

******

Johnny's POV

He wakes up to the sun on his face from the small window in the room of the inn. He stretches his arms, pulling his fingers first into tight fists then splayed straight like starfish. What a magnificent dream. He must share it with Morrissey. But much to Johnny's dismay, his eyes find the tiny room empty of any Witcher or witchery items.

"Morrissey? Mr. Witcher?' he calls. "Are you playing a game with me?"

Silence. 

Johnny leaps from the bed and pulls on his trousers and doublet quickly. He grabs his lute and races down the stairs and out to the stables. Roach's stall is empty. The bard runs his fingers through his inky black hair and sighs. He knows he won't be able to catch Morrissey on foot even if he knew the direction the Witcher was heading. He shakes off his disappointment and returns to the inn. Since he's clearly been ditched by the older man, he might as well enjoy breakfast before he begins his own journey to his next adventure.

The innkeeper tells him the next village is more than a two day walk to the north, so Johnny arranges a deal to play for a few nights in exchange for a room and supper. He pulls out a notebook and begins working on a witcher-inspired song. Morrissey was tall, about a head taller than himself. He was strong, yet lean with a narrow waist and long legs. A smile plays on Johnny's lips as he remembers how the Witcher looked relaxing in the bath. No, the man wasn't bulky or burly, but his muscles were firm and rippled with any movement. His pale skin was littered with scars, evidence of his battles with all sorts of nasty monsters. And his hair was shaved on the sides and back, but piled high on the top of his in thick, fluffy waves. The most shocking thing about his hair was the color. Grayish-white. The color of an old man's hair. But the Witcher didn't look older than 35. And those shocking turquoise eyes were exquisite.

He sings a song of the kikimore hunt. He plays up the attacks of the monster and embellishes Morrissey's battle tactics and heroism. He attributes all of the slain monsters to Morrissey's prowess as a Witcher. The crowd goes wild. Coin is being tossed into his lute case. This is so much better than bread. He wishes the Witcher was sitting in the tavern tonight. The taciturn man breathed life into the the bard's cheerful melodies. Johnny knows without a doubt that he will find Morrissey again. Their paths are destined to cross eventually. He is as certain of this as he is of where to place his fingers on the strings of his lute.

******

6 Months Later

The first snow of the year falls early. Morrissey is too far south to make it back to Kaer Mohren to winter as most Witchers do. He needs to find a town or village to stock up on supplies. And his trusty horse deserves a night's rest in a warm stable. So he gives the innkeeper enough coin for two nights in a village on the outskirts of Riedbrune. Two nights should give him plenty of time to purchase supplies and prepare for the fast approaching winter. He might even secure a contract if he's lucky. The cold weather keeps villagers indoors so monster hunting becomes scarce unless a particular bold or stupid creature decides to attack a farm or homestead. So now is the time to make sure he has rations enough to keep him running for weeks, patch and reinforce his cloaks, blankets and armor, and plan to head south to warmer temperatures and hopefully more active monsters.

Once Roach is settled in the stable, Morrissey makes his way next door to the local tavern. A hot meal and a few tankards of ale sound enticing and he can listen out for anyone needing a Witcher's services. The cold weather must make these villagers a bit more charitable than the usual hatred and fear he receives. The bar maid actually smiles when he orders supper and she refills his mug as soon as he drains it. The tavern crowd begins buzzing with excitement. Morrissey looks up from his drink and spies a familiar form in a dashing red doublet.

"Morrissey!" Johnny's happy voice calls out and soon the bard his beside him with his own tankard of ale. "What have you been up to in these past few months that we've been apart?"

"Killing monsters."

Johnny snorts. "That's not surprising. But the devil is in the details. Give me a tasty little nugget of description. The name of the beast, or its size, color, or any particularly revolting bodily fluids it oozes from its skin."

"Just let me eat in peace, bard," the Witcher growls. He is quite pleased with Johnny's sudden reappearance in his life, but the sight and smell and pure energy radiating from the musician is almost too much for Morrissey to handle. His ears hum and the scent of the man is so strong and unique, it makes it hard for the Witcher to draw a deep breath. Again, he wonders if Johnny carries magic in his blood. He stares at the man's face, especially his ears. He might be elven if he used just a hint of glamour to round off the points. 

"Well my public awaits. I've written a few more songs since the last time we met. I dedicate them to you. Your monster hunting antics bring out the best in me." And the bard flashes an impish smile at the Witcher and gives him a teasing wink as he strums a few chords on his lute. Morrissey closes his eyes and tries to breathe. There is definitely something about Johnny that sets him off-kilter. He half-listens to the music as he focuses on the stew in front of him. Simple, hot stew. Nothing weird or straining to his senses. Thank the gods for that. 

As the evening runs into night, Morrissey is glued to his stool in the tavern. Johnny's music has improved greatly. The bard is a talented musician, no doubt and the words of his new songs are far more authentic. But as the tavern patrons get more and more drunk, the songs become bawdier and more ridiculous. The Witcher watches Johnny stroll through the tavern, making eye contact with just about everyone. Especially the bar maid. She's rather homely in Morrissey's opinion, with dusty blonde hair and green eyes. She might me be just a touch taller than Johnny. She leans her large bosom over the bar as Johnny passes and he smiles broadly at her display. The smile she returns to him reveals gaps in her upper teeth where she is missing a few. But Johnny's body language indicates this isn't a deterrent. He finishes his song with a flourish and a bow and whispers into the bar maid's ear.

Morrissey tears his eyes away from the two. He feels suddenly cold and tired and just plain old. He rises from his seat.

"Calling it a night, then?' Johnny calls down the bar to him.

"Yeah. I need sleep."

"How long are you in town?"

"Another night. Then I'm heading south."

"Oh! Wonderful! I'm traveling south to Beauclair. We'll journey together!"

"Hmmm," he grunts while the gears in his brain start to spin and churn out some kind of emotion. Is it relief? He looks back at Johnny, a question on the tip of his tongue, but the bard is fingering a flaxen strand of hair that has fallen from the barmaid's braids right across her Roman nose. The witcher knows this is his cue to leave. Johnny evidently has other plans for the night that don't include him.

******

Johnny leads Belinda, the voluptuous barmaid, back to his room. This woman is obviously under appreciated. The bard plans to change that. He finds beauty in everything and everyone. It vexes him when others are blind to it. 

"I cannot believe no one has told you how lovely you are. Are the townsfolk blind?"

Belinda bows her head and blushes. "They say I should have been a man. That I'm too tall and my feet and hands are too big." She clenches those hands into fists and nearly trips over her feet on the stairs. "Oh and that I'm as graceful as an ox."

"They are indeed blind," Johnny says, opening the door to his room and ushering her inside. "Where they see your size as wrong, I see it as powerful."

He gently turns the woman's hands over and traces her calloused palms. "Your hands are strong and capable. You could hold the world in them, crush it, if you so desired, but, alas, you choose to labor and care and love with them. How can no one see this?"

And with those words, Johnny begins to show her how what else her body is capable of doing. Her large frame entices the bard, the ash-colored hair, the calloused palms dragging across his skin under his shirt. He closes his eyes as he worships her and murmurs his praise. He can't help that his mind wanders to another body with ashy hair, calloused hands and oh so many scars.

Unbeknownst to Johnny, Morrissey sits in the room next door. He can hear every word with his enhanced witcher senses. He's moved from sitting at the edge of his bed to a chair next to the wall. A chair is the better place to clean his swords. Or at least that's what he tells himself. He looks down at his hands. You could hold the world in them, crush it, if you so desired... His vision clouds for a moment until he realizes those words weren't meant for him. He's a mutant, not a barmaid. He can hear soft sighs and moans in the room next door. Why is he torturing himself sitting so close? What can possibly be gained by this?

Heavy footfalls on the stairs shock him out of his revelry. He holds a sword at the ready. He can smell anger in the air and knows trouble is about to come knocking.

"Belinda! I know you're in there! Open the door or I'll kick it down!"

Morrissey hears the shuffling in the room next door. 

"Who is it, love? I can get rid of him if you wish to stay with me," Johnny whispers.

"It's my fiancé!" the barmaid gasps.

The witcher can hear Johnny groan. "I did not know you were betrothed."

Then the door breaks open with a heavy thud. "Get back to yer mother's house, you filthy whore. I'll deal with you later," the gruff voice of the innkeeper growls followed by a squawk from Johnny. "I didn't know she was spoken for!"

Morrissey quickly dons his armor. He's not about to insert himself into this squabble unless absolutely necessary. Surely the bard has got himself out of these kinds of situations in the past. He hears the sickening sound of a fist hitting flesh and a cry of pain from Johnny. Fuck.

"What seems to be the trouble?" Morrissey tries to speak calmly as he fills in the doorway of the bard's room. Johnny is wiping blood from his mouth while the innkeeper holds him by the collar of his shirt.

"Fucking bard trying to take what does not belong to him, not that it's any business of yours," the innkeeper rumbles.

"Seeing that he is my travel companion, it is my business."

"Then take him and yourself off my property unless you want to watch me break his hands and castrate him!"

"That won't be necessary, good man. You will never see me again. Just let me go and no one will ever speak of this. I'm terribly sorry. If I had known she was affianced..." Johnny blabbers.

"Get the fuck out!" And the innkeeper throws Johnny into the hall, passed the witcher and throws his lute case right after.

"Come on, bard," Morrissey says and grabs Johnny by the ear and drags him from the inn.

They awaken Roach from the stables and load their belongings. It's cold and dark and Morrissey should be unhappy that his peaceful night is disturbed. He does not want to examine why he is not too closely.

"She deserves better than that cretin," Johnny mutters. "I do hate it when someone cannot see a precious jewel right in front of them."

"Do you want to go back and fight for her hand then, bard?" 

"Oh no. No, no, no. There is far too much beauty in the world to limit myself in that way. And that's my point! Why should she settle for that blind, cruel fool in a world filled with possibilities?"

"Because that is how society works. Unless you're a horny bard, I suppose."

"I am NOT a horny bard! Well I'm not JUST a horny bard. There is more to me than sex. Sex is yet another beauty of which to partake and enjoy." Johnny gestures with his arms spread wide. "And now we will travel into this starry night in search of more beauty and adventure!"

"Hmmm." For some reason, the bard's incessant chatter does not annoy Morrissey tonight. It's rather comforting. This is not the first time he's been thrown out of an inn. But it is the first time he's been evicted defending a, a companion? An acquaintance? A friend?

Roach snorts and her breath is two small cloud puffs ascending toward the heavens. There is peace in the heart of the witcher tonight. Peace in the soft clop of his horse's hooves and the undignified squawking of Johnny at his side.

******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the chapter I intended to write. And now I have two more chapters under construction that I also didn't intend to write. Quarantine is making me crazy(er). 
> 
> This story is not beta'd or proofread. I did look at a map to try to figure my way around the Witcher world.


	4. You Were Clearly Never Meant To Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cold weather is a hindrance to a witcher but it can be fatal to a bard. 
> 
> Or another hypothermia tale involving one clueless, self-loathing witcher and one stubborn bard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonically, Witchers have higher body temperatures and are less susceptible to hypothermia. The mutations also make them impervious to disease and viruses like the common cold.

"You really need sturdier boots, Johnny," Morrissey grumbles as he stares at the thin leather, knee-high boots the bard is wearing.

"What? These are my most comfortable set of footwear I've ever owned. And they have non-skid soles so I don't slip whilst performing," said Johnny, fondly gazing at his feet.

"How do they handle snow?"

Johnny sighs. "I've never subjected them to harsh conditions. But I guess I've been a bit too distracted lately to be in a proper city this winter. And by proper, I mean more civilized."

"That's hardly my fault. Normally I'm at Kaer Morhen in the witchers keep by now. Yet, here I am, still in bloody Toussaint and still not far enough south for good contracts."

"Well it's not my fault you are in Toussaint!"

"Just buy yourself some winter travel clothing before we leave Belhaven. You won't see another city until you've reached Beauclair." Morrissey needs to be on the road. He is packed with enough supplies for 3 weeks. He hopes to stumble upon some villages with monster issues by then to refill his coin purse and his rations. He really should just part ways with Johnny now. But he can't just let the musician travel to Beauclair on his own. There's too much wilderness and not enough towns to give a mere human a decent chance of survival in the winter. If he were to abandon the bard now, he truly would be the monster most of society already thinks he is.

Johnny twirls in front of Morrissey in a crushed velvet cloak and extends one leg with pride. "New boots! I am ready for travel!"

"You did tell the merchant you would be traveling out in the elements, right? That you were probably going to be cold and wet and possibly muddy?"

"I told him I was on my way to Beauclair and needed proper garments," says Johnny looking fondly at his new calfskin boots.

Morrissey huffs out a sigh. Proper garments for what? Certainly not journeying through the wilderness. Oh well. Johnny will just have to suffer the consequences. They really need to be on the road now to take advantage of the lull in the wintry weather. If all goes well, they should arrive in Beauclair in two days time.

Johnny strums his lute and remarks on the scenery as they leave Belhaven behind them. "We are truly in a valley of plenty! Look! We are sandwiched between two mountain ranges!"

"Hmmm." The witcher sees the snow on said mountain ranges and urges his horse on a bit faster but not fast enough to lose the bard. He sees the white, wispy clouds in the sky and knows that tomorrow will bring stormy weather. The road is blessedly clear from the snowfall earlier in the week and the two travelers make good time. Johnny jabbers on about the beauty of Toussaint, the relative flatlands and meadows of Redania his desire see Cidaris and gaze at the ocean. 

The sun is low in the sky when Morrissey spies a flat clearing near the edge of a riverbank. "We'll camp here," he points and dismounts. They follow the river away from the road. Unfortunately, the areas best for camping are all out in the open. They had to be in order for the sun to melt away any lingering snow and dry the earth.

After unloading and caring for Roach, the witcher paces a perimeter and charms it with a few basic protection spells. Johnny is fascinated watching the brief blue sparks fly from Morrissey's fingertips. "What, pray tell, are you doing? I know you aren't killing anything, but that looks like it could be deadly."

Morrissey laughs and Johnny's eyes widen. He hasn't heard the witcher laugh before. It's a grand, rumbling sound. "Not deadly, but not appealing either. Should make our campsite less of a target for anything out there that might be hungry."

"Oh. Well that's reassuring, I guess."

"Too bad it doesn't work against bandits."

Johnny looks back toward the road and then to the forest behind them. "It's good thing I have my sword, then. It is a fantastic deterrent against bandits."

"Hmm." The witcher doesn't believe him.

"I'll see about using it to catch us some dinner. To warm up my weapon, so to speak," Johnny says with a cheeky grin.

The witcher is thankful his metabolism doesn't allow him to blush at the bard's flirtation. Morrissey seriously doubts the bard is going to get anything but wet with his fishing expedition, but he busies himself gathering firewood and finishing up their campsite.

"Meletele's tits, this water is cold!" Johnny shouts. The witcher looks up to see the bard dancing around the river's edge with his trousers rolled up past his knees, sword waving crazily in the air above his head, water splashing as he high steps it into the creek.

"You'll scare away all the fish."

"Well I just scared my balls right out of my nut sack so excuse my shouts of discomfort while I adjust." 

Morrissey is not in the mood to hunt and kill anything, so he rechecks his food rations from his saddlebag to see what he can spare for tonight's supper since he is positive Johnny will return empty handed.

"Ha! Look at that!" Johnny yells again from the river.

The witcher raises his head and stares in utter disbelief at the shiny trout impaled on the bard's blade. "Hmmm," he says as he sharpens a small branch for a spit to roast the fish.

"See, I am a useful travel companion!" Johnny gets to work cleaning the fish.

After a nice supper of fish stew, Johnny pulls out his lute and sings a mournful tale of star-crossed lovers who never get it together until one of them is lying on his death bed. 

"I learned that one at university," says Johnny, still gently strumming the melody.

"I didn't know traveling bards required a formal education."

"They don't. But young viscounts do."

"You're a viscount?"

"Was. Not any longer."

"Hmmm." Morrissey is very curious how a young noble transformed into a traveling musician, but he doesn't want to pry. Perhaps Johnny is uncomfortable with the entire situation and doesn't wish to discuss it. Johnny then takes a deep breath and launches into the story much to Morrissey's delight.

"I had a great childhood with my two older sisters. We ran wild across the fields of Lettenhove. That's where I learned spear fishing. Our cook's son who was five years older than myself, would come traipsing back from the lake with a line of fish. My father was all about manly pursuits and catching fish sure seemed to fall into that category. So I began to follow Lenyan. I made myself useful to him and pretty soon I was catching fish, too. And Lenyan was duly impressed with my quick learning." Johnny gives the witcher a salacious wink.

"Some things don't change," the witcher says, pretending to ignore any possible double meanings to the bard's words.

Johnny smiles at Morrissey. "Tenacity works for me," he said. Then his face darkens. "You do what you have to in order to survive."

"I guess you're not talking about spear fishing."

The bard pokes mindlessly at the campfire watching the embers scatter and dim. "I always loved music. Singing, playing instruments, composing. My life needed to revolve around music. My father, however, strongly disagreed. His son and heir would not be a worthless musician. When I was sent to the academy at Oxenfurt, it was like a dream come true. There were so many like-minded people. My professors encouraged me, stoked my dreams of becoming a world famous bard. I graduated with honors. I was ready to see the world, to live for my art, but again, my father was not pleased."

Morrissey doesn't look up. He continues cleaning his swords, turning the blades this way and that way, watching the flames of the campfire dance across the mirror-smooth surfaces. Johnny takes a deep breath and continues his story.

"I arrived back home and was told to ready myself for a celebratory banquet. Stupid me thought my family was celebrating my graduation. Ridiculous for me to even consider my family felt an ounce of pride in any of my accomplishments. My father informed me that he was announcing my engagement and that I should dress and act in a manner befitting my station."

"Hmmm," Morrissey growled. 

"Indeed," Johnny seemingly answered the witcher's growl. "He arranged for me to marry a young lady, child, really, whose family possessed large tracts of land in a profitable area of Redania. My fiancé was only 14 years old. We were to have a one year engagement and marry at the ripe old ages of 15 and 19. Then I was to establish a home in the middle of those large tracts of land and get to work producing heirs, lord over the peons who rented on our property, grow fat and lazy and take up mistresses if my wife didn't suit me. Beauty and love have no place in the life of a nobleman."

Again, Morrissey remains silent. He too had no choice in his future. He'd been abandoned as a small child to Kaer Morhen and his fate was sealed. There was no one to rebel against. At least it was only his life ruined. He didn't have to worry about destroying anyone else's hopes and dreams. He tentatively reaches out to Johnny and gently pats his shoulder.

"I left home well before my betrothal banquet. Never looked back. I sing for my meals. I love who I want. I travel wherever I wish. Tenacity has served me well so far. You can hardly chastise me for relying on it."

"I'm sure it will come in handy. But we need to sleep. I'm afraid the weather tomorrow will not be nearly so pleasant." Morrissey changes the subject swiftly. He does not like the choked feeling in his throat he gets as Johnny's story echos in his mind.

"Alright. Goodnight then, Morrissey." The bard lays down but then pops back up like tightly wound spring. "And now you know why I find such joy in our travels. I dodged a bolt of drudgery, my friend," Johnny says, squirming down into his bedroll across the fire from the witcher.

"Hmmm" the witcher answers, fighting the urge to blurt out the fact that they are not friends. That witchers don't have friends. He has a feeling that Johnny will not find tomorrow's journey very joyful. He can smell snow in the brisk night breeze.

******

"F-f-f-fucking hells," Johnny swears between chattering teeth. They've been traveling for 5 hours now, the past 2 in a driving snowstorm. The bard presses his body again Roach's warm flank and tries to use the horse as a windbreaker. Morrissey is on the other side of the horse, leading his faithful mount through the bitter wind.

Even with breaking camp early and not stopping for dinner, the storm still overtook the travelers far too early in their day's journey. Morrissey has to hand it to Johnny. The bard is facing the blizzard with only a few swear words sputtered every now and then.

"I'm looking for a suitable place to camp. We won't make Beauclair tomorrow, but it's better than getting lost in the storm."

"Or freezing to death," Johnny mutters.

After nearly another hour in the howling wind, Morrissey spots a rocky outcropping to his left. He explores the worn walls of granite until they give way to a shallow cavern. His witcher medallion does not hum with any magic and he smells no monster scents. "We'll camp here," he announces, but only Roach is there to acknowledge his words. 

"Johnny?" he calls into the storm and is answered only by the howling wind. Morrissey quickly tethers Roach inside the cave out of the elements and rushes back out in search of the bard. He retraces the deep footprints in the snow until he sees the royal blue of Johnny's cloak. In a flash, he's at the bard's side.

"Sorry, M'rsy. I'm just tired. Lemme sleep an' I'll follow in a minute," Johnny groans, never opening his eyes.

"Fuck!" Morrissey should have realized the bard couldn't tolerate the storm the same as he and Roach. Johnny's lips are almost purple and his ice-cold fingers wear the dusty grey tint of frostbite. "Stay with me, Johnny!" he shouts, gathering his fallen companion in his arms and trudges back through the snow to the protection of the shallow cavern.

It's still bloody cold even though they are now out of the wind. Morrissey tries to lift Johnny onto Roach in the hopes that he might draw heat from the horse's warm body, but Johnny is a limp rag doll. "Fuck."

The witcher rushes back out to gather whatever bits of wood he can find. He digs a small fire pit and sparks the wet logs into a warming blaze using his limited magic. He half- drags Johnny as close to the fire as is safely possible. The young man is soaking wet, limp, not shivering and is unresponsive. Reality settles a sickening weight across Morrssey's shoulders. This is his fault. Instead of protecting the bard in his travels south, he's killed him. How could he have forced this fragile mortal to walk in a blizzard for hours without realizing the toll it took upon his thin, ill-clad body? He truly is a monster.

"Mmmm. Feels good. Warm," Johnny mutters.

It's not too late, Morrissey realizes. He kneels before the boy and takes his icy hands, gently rubbing the calloused finger tips, huffing his warm breath into the frozen palms. "I won't let you die, bard. But we have to get you out of these wet clothes." He removes Johnny's boots and cloak and lays them on the other side of the fire to dry. His doublet and trousers are also soaked from lying in the snow, so Morrissey removes those, as well. With rising trepidation, the witcher feels that no article of clothing has escaped the wretched damp of the blizzard. He is going to have to strip Johnny naked.

But first, he will roll out their bedding and prepare a nest of sorts. He simply cannot bear the thought of Johnny lying naked and helpless in the dirt and rocks. He also strips down to his own small clothes to lessen any chance of more cold, moisture leaching heat away from Johnny's body. The witcher cradles the bard's head in his lap as he peels the remaining clothes from his still body never allowing his eyes to wander from the boy's face.

He curls his own body around Johnny, burrows down into their bedrolls and pulls a horse blanket over top for good measure. Morrissey can feel the warmth of his body flood into Johnny's. The bard shivers, finally.

"This's nice," Johnny says, scooting his back flush against Morrissey's front.

"Hmmm," the witcher hums into the bard's ear. A million thoughts flow through his mind in an overwhelming rush. He tightens his hold around Johnny's chest, fiercely protective. This is not good. This human's life is too precious to place in the care of a witcher. Morrissey has no business forming a connection, a bond with this man. This beautiful, talented, amazing man. 

Fuck.


	5. I'll See You Somewhere, I'll See You Sometime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The life and times of a medieval musician interacting with a mutant
> 
> Or - Johnny's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short little update. Again, I'm sorry this exists but it does help keep my mind busy during these trying times.

Johnny awakens sprawled across Morrissey's muscled chest. He snuggles deeper, under the witcher's chin, enveloped in a warm den of blankets, cloaks and a heady masculine scent of earth and musk. He then realizes that he is 100 percent naked. He is absolutely skin-to-skin with Morrissey who is thankfully, still asleep.

Morrissey is by far the most interesting man he has ever met. Sure, he's just 18, but he's seen quite the range of humanity as a traveling bard. Morrissey just confounds him. Johnny grew up being taught to fear witchers. They were like evil bogey men, determined to sweep in and steal naughty children enslaving them to a short life of pain and suffering followed by certain death at the blades of their swords. But one look at Morrissey in the tavern told Johnny that those childhood tales were all horse shit. 

After his brief conversation, the young minstrel decided that witchers were merely men trained to do an important job, saving mankind from terrifying monsters. Witchers did a job, earned a living and just wanted to be left alone. Then Johnny witnessed the kikimora hunt, saw Morrissey in action. The witcher clearly did not enjoy any of it. His face was impassive but his actions were reluctant. Accurate and lethal, but reluctant nonetheless . Were all witchers this way? Did they all loathe their sole purpose for existence.

Shit. Johnny puts two and two together. Morrissey not only hates his job, but also himself for what he is. What must it be like to walk the earth in a body created for one particular purpose so misaligned with the soul that inhabits it?

Johnny's thoughts are cut off when Morrissey stirs next to him. Brown eyes meet turquoise and the witcher whirls himself out of their warm nest and is across the cave in a split second. Unlike Johnny, Morrissey is in his small clothes.

"Glad to see you survived the night," the witcher's voice rumbles.

"Yeah. Me too. I don't really remember much of it, to be honest. Just traipsing through a lot of snow for a long fucking time. Next thing I know, I'm naked and warm in a cave with you. I'm sure there is a song in this somewhere.."

"You'd sing about this?" Morrissey gestures to himself then back to Johnny. "A song of horror to be certain. Waking helpless and naked in a witcher's lair." Morrissey turns to his saddle bags and pulls out his leather trousers.

"I wager there's some people who would find it romantic and thrilling."

Morrissey nearly trips over his own trousers but recovers far too quickly for Johnny's liking and soon stands before the bard shirtless and flushed.

"Is that so hard to believe? That perhaps someone would find this situation arousing?" Johnny wiggles his eyebrows and teases the blanket lower on his body, stopping just below his navel.

""Get dressed. We've no time to waste. There's a break in the weather and we may yet make it to Beauclair tonight," Morrissey says, throwing a wadded clump of clothing at Johnny's face. So much for romance and arousal.

******

They do manage to arrive in Beauclair that night. The streets are empty. Most residents are burrowed safely in their homes, enjoying the warmth of their hearths.

"Thank the gods!" Johnny bellows, his tenor voice rings out like a church bell. "Come, Witcher. Let's get us a room. Then we can make our way to a lively tavern for a night of food, women and wine. Oh, civilization, how I've missed thee!"

The bard turns to face his companion when he doesn't even receive a grunt or 'hmmm' in reply. Johnny can't hide his surprise from seeing the discomfort in the witcher's expression. "What's wrong, Morrissey? Talk to me."

"I'm not staying in Beauclair."

"Well you have to at least stay the night. It's too late and too dark to travel now."

"Witchers can see in the dark. I need to head west."

"Fucking hell, Morrissey. At least join me for dinner." After noticing the deep furrows on his friend's brow Johnny adds,"Think of Roach. She at least deserves some downtime and a good dinner in a cozy stable. If you won't stay for me, do it for her."

"Hmmm."

"Now you're talking sense. Fuck. Is it weird that I can understand your hmmms now?"

"Probably just you."

"Oh. Well. What a nice thing to say. I guess," he babbles. "So let's get Roachy settled for the night and book ourselves beds."

"Once I pay for Roach's stabling, I won't have the coin," he mumbles into his heavy cloak.

"What's that? Coin? I have you, my dear witcher. Your dinner and room is on me. You did save my life last night. And winter is when I make the most coin. Captive audiences and all that, you know."

"Hmmm."

"Yeah? Well you're welcome. Now let's get out of the cold!"

Johnny secures a room for the night. "It only has one bed, but that's nothing new to us, right, Morrissey?"

"I can sleep on the floor. I was planning to sleep outdoors anyhow."

"Nonsense! We've managed a single bed before with no issues. Hells, we even managed last night naked! Well, erm, me. I was naked. You were, well..." Johnny has certainly talked himself into an awkward corner.

"Don't remind me."

"It wasn't all that bad. Was it?" His voices squeaks.

"It was my fault you ended up that way. You nearly died following me. I should have known to stop earlier before nudity became necessary."

"Well that was then, this is now. Let bygones be bygones. And for the love of Melitele, don't blame yourself. I'm sure I would have frozen to death had I been traveling alone."

"Hmmm."

"I agree. Now let's find something to eat."

Johnny's head is filled with song ideas from these new adventures he's experienced with the witcher. Somehow, they all seem to lean toward terribly romantic ballads or tunes of doomed lovers. This is something new for the bard. Before, all his lyrics were quite literal. Then he would embellish with fanciful creatures and warm, languid lovers. But to start off with a ballad of a maiden securely encased in her lover's arms amidst a howling wind seems to require very little embellishment at all. Fancy that, he thinks as his eyes fall back on the handsome face of his companion. His lips curve into a smile when the other man returns his gaze. Their connection is broken once the blue-eyed man grumbles a single word under his breath.

"Fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little fluff chapter. I am intentionally trying to end each chapter with the f bomb. I have some idea where I want this story to go but I'm not sure it will let me get there. Must rein in babbling and wandering. Must advance what little plot exists. Thank you to any and all who continue reading. I hope it at least is slightly entertaining.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry this exists. Blame the pandemic. I might continue it if I don’t contract coronavirus and die.
> 
> Since I seem to be continuing this, thought I would clarify some canon for both fandoms.
> 
> The Smiths - 1980's Indie band out of Manchester UK. Lead singer Morrissey was celibate for the 5 year duration of the band but has claimed pansexuality in his later life. Guitarist Johnny Marr has stated he is straight but admits to kissing male friends in his youth. Speculation abounds that Morrissey (also called Moz, Mozzer) was in love with Johnny. Unrequited. (Or was it?)
> 
> The Witcher - Netflix TV series from December 2019. Also a video game series. All based somewhat loosely off short stories and novels by Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski. Set in the 1200’s on an imaginary continent. Geralt of Rivia is The Witcher - a mutated man who hunts and kills monsters for a living. Portrayed as straight in the TV series and video games, but with a lot of gay undertones in the books. Geralt is played by Henry Cavill in the TV series. Jaskier|Dandelion aka Julian Alfred Pankratz is a traveling bard who was born a viscount. Portrayed as het in most of the media typeset comes across as pansexual (IMO). Jaskier is played by Joey Batey in the TV series.
> 
> This Story - I've only watched the Netflix series and read various snippets from the short stories and books. Haven't ever played any of the games so I've zero knowledge about their storylines.
> 
> Morrissey - retains most of his canon personality from The Smiths except for his spoken vocabulary. He speaks like Netflix Geralt. So picture a Geralt who isn't a bulky action figure, who waxes poetic in his mind and has terrible self esteem. My character is a loner who hates to kill and yearns for something more to life.
> 
> Johnny - contains more of Netflix Jaskier's personality except for his ability to write lyrics and his finesse with a sword. So picture a young Johnny Marr with a zest for life who loves everyone, sleeps with anyone and wants to see as much of the world as possible. My character loves music, people and adventure. He's competent, kind and annoying.
> 
> Also Yennifer of Vengerburg will make an appearance later. Stay tuned for her character description.


End file.
